Drunken Eulogies
by TheTwilightRurouni
Summary: This was a night of remembrance, to acknowledge that death came for them all and in that shadow celebrate. But not for Matthew.


The citadel of Ostia shone in the night, a beacon in the dark and rolling hills. Within the city, strings of talismans in the shape of Saint Elimine hung from every lintel, and paper lanterns bobbed in the fountains, spilling over with flickering light. Market squares had been transformed, turned into festival grounds for games of luck and strength and skill. At nearly two hours to midnight, the sun had only just slipped beneath the horizon, the skies still pearlescent with fading light. The Eve of Longshades had come.

The city was restless in the young night, filled with the happy shrieks of children who should have been asleep and the laughter of adults who knew that tomorrow had no more cares than these present joyful moments. In a narrow tavern, normally crowded but empty on this night, Matthew sat at a deserted bar. He had known he would be alone tonight, every other patron out among the festivities, but he had come anyway, letting himself in through a high window with a very faulty latch.

His tattered red cloak lay draped over the barstool beside him, and he counted coins that would possibly end up on the bar when he left later that night, depending on his mood. Normally he hid from festivals in the castle, but on the Eve of Longshades the marquess opened up even his home to the merriment, blurring the line between noble and commoner. Besides, with Lilina on her feet and toddling, Matthew found it uncannily hard to hide from her. He suspected the girl had mage blood in her veins.

Matthew rose and vaulted over the counter. He removed a mug from the wooden rack along the back wall and loosened the spigot on a nearby keg. Frothy red ale streamed into the mug, and the piquant scent of cedar filled the taproom. He took a sip and pulled a face. It tasted like pine tar. He sniffed the next keg in line, searching for something a shade darker when a knock came at the door.

Matthew paused, and a moment later whoever was outside pounded a little harder.

"Matthew. I know you're in there."

Matthew set the mug on the counter, and when he opened the door, Oswin stared back at him. The man looked naked without his armor, an Elimine effigy hanging around his neck.

"Welcome to the Slipped Latch," Matthew said. "We're open one night a year in this exact location, which also happens to be the location of the Cedar Barrel on every _other_ night of the year. A bit confusing, I know, but please come in."

He stepped aside, and Oswin grunted in what may have been amusement. He stood in quiet study of the taproom as Matthew closed and bolted the door behind them, muffling the riotous din of festival-goers. Matthew returned to the counter and offered Oswin the mug of heinously floral ale.

Oswin sat, sipped the drink, and asked, "Don't you want to know how I found you?"

"You found me because last year you wanted to know why I wasn't at the juggling contest, and when I wouldn't tell you, you dropped the matter without a word. That's when I knew you would be following me _this_ year. You've got a good mind for long cons, Oswin—very patient—but you're a touch predictable."

Oswin watched him over the rim of his mug. "So what you're saying is you wanted to be found."

"I didn't want to _not_ be found, at least not by you." Matthew plunked a mug of dark stout onto the counter. "Assuming Serra didn't tag along. Which, by the lack of ringing in my ears, she did not."

"Matthew, I know what's eating you," Oswin said, and then quickly, before Matthew could batten down, "just as you know what eats me. You can't sit in the dark, prodding at a wound so it never heals."

"It's healing."

"And every year, on this night, you break it open again. Maybe it will heal like that eventually, or maybe it will go gangrenous and kill you. I understand sadness, but the Eve of Longshades is a stone around your neck. Time to cut loose. This is a night to be happy."

"I no longer feel happiness, Oswin. I understand it, I can see it all around me, but I don't feel it." Matthew stared at his mug, untouched on the countertop, the foamy head slowly breaking down. "When I see Lilina I feel hope, and when I report to Hector I feel satisfaction, but happiness is like a veil over my eyes. I just want to reach up and tear it away."

The silence felt hollow as Oswin finished his ale, and then he surprised Matthew. "Fine. Let's wallow, then." He circled around to the back of the bar and refilled his mug. "I miss her, too, you know. She used to bring me a new quill from whatever place she'd been, ah, now what'd she call it…"

"Proselytizing." Matthew sat frozen. Something in him ached, and he didn't know if it was because he wanted Oswin to stop or because he wanted to know more. "We call it proselytizing."

Oswin smiled in a far off way, lost in memory. "That's right. She'd always say she was spreading the word of Saint Elimine here or there—'_and what do you know, Oswin, I brought you a new quill._' Swan, raven, pheasant, quail—wasn't long before my escritoire could outfit a company of archers."

Matthew stared at him. He had seen Oswin's desk many times, full to bursting with quills of all shapes and sizes. He'd never known where they came from.

"I…I didn't know she thought that fondly of you."

"Her late uncle and I were pages at the same time. I knew her since she was a little girl, sneaking into the guest stables whenever we had a Pegasus." He paused, his brow furrowing as though sinking deeper into memory, and he laughed softly. "Always swore she'd get me a Pegasus quill one day."

Matthew took a drink, unable to summon the strength to speak the words lodged in his throat. Oswin joined him, the silence more companionable this time, until finally Matthew set down his empty mug and said, "Tell me something else."

Oswin smiled. "Before a young rogue swept her away, she and I used to enter the darts tournament every year on this night. Would you like to see?"

"Yes."

#

Matthew left the Cedar Barrel how he had found it, aside from the neat stack of copper pieces at the end of the counter, and for the first time in half a decade he found himself in the thronging crowds of the Eve of Longshades. Oswin led them on a circuitous route through the festival, stopping to string another effigy onto the cord around his neck as the shrine priestess tolled out the passing of the hour. He prayed at one of the makeshift altars, purchased a bundle of blessed incense, and on the market green he made an impressive caber toss that won him a gold piece and the right to wear a placard bearing the title "Roland's Heir." He accepted the coin and declined the moniker, which in Matthew's opinion was the only reasonable play.

Eventually they arrived at a makeshift open-air tavern, tables and chairs erected around two raised countertops, assembled beneath a massive tarpaulin. The air was thick with the scent of pipe smoke and roast pheasant, and raucous laughter washed over Matthew in waves. He was surprised to realize he didn't hate it.

As they entered the tent, cries of greeting arose for Oswin, and Matthew was reminded that the knight had not _always_ been a knight. The common folk were Oswin's people just as much as they were Matthew's.

At the bar Oswin ordered two more beers and had to shout over the din as he asked, "Too late to join the tourney?"

The middle-aged woman gave him a lopsided grin and leaned close enough for Matthew to hear, "For you? Not at all! Who's your partner?"

Oswin nodded to Matthew. The woman gave him a once-over and a wink. "Looks like you know your way to the center of a dart board well enough." She gestured for Oswin to find a seat, and he led them to a smoky little corner where the tables ran up against the back wall of a smithy.

"You know I didn't necessarily want to play in the tourney." Matthew sipped his ale, which was pleasantly malty.

"Well, too bad. I can't show my face around here and expect not to play, and I needed a partner."

"Which you neglected to mention at the Slipped Latch."

Oswin shrugged as he drained half his drink in one go. "You wanted to see. This is it. It began ten, maybe eleven years ago. The prize was a genuine draco shield, and she could tell I wanted it dearly, so she hauled me into the competition—best Longshades I'd had in my life. After that, we made it a tradition."

Matthew watched the older man, bemused by how freely he spoke. It wasn't just the drink that was loosening his tongue; he had seen Oswin drain a pitcher by himself and still make seven out of ten javelin throws. This was something else—the Eve of Longshades, Oswin's own sadness, a smothering nostalgia. Matthew knew those feelings, and he resolved to stay a bit longer. Normally he would have sent Oswin to the bar for more drinks and slipped away.

The bartender caught Matthew's eye and waved.

"I think that's us, Oswin."

They threaded through a gauntlet of whoops and cheers, and the place nearly broke out chanting Oswin's name. Between the table sections was a stretch of green, perhaps ten paces long, ending in a dart board of painted cork. The officiator handed them each a handful of darts, which he invited them to inspect.

"Each of you gets five throws," the man said, "to achieve the highest score possible. If you can match your partner's throws, the point value is doubled, but if you knock their dart from the board, both your points are null. Throw as you will, gentlemen."

A hush fell over the room as Oswin stepped up to the line, drink in one hand, darts in the other. He sipped his beer, squinted at the dart board, and adjusted his stance.

"Oswin," Matthew said, "do you want me to hold your other four—"

Oswin hurled all five darts at once, and the crowd erupted. "Oswin's Gambit!"

He stepped back from the line, laughing uproariously. Three of his darts had bounced off the board and lay on the green, while the other two stuck in the ten and double-twenty point sections.

Matthew leaned in to ask over the roar of the onlookers, "What the devil was that?"

"I never said I was good at darts," Oswin said. "She always carried me, every year. If you can stick all of yours into that double-twenty I managed, we'll stand a chance."

Matthew turned his gaze to the dart board. "Never thought I'd see the day Sir Oswin of Ostia let his hair down."

He stepped up to the line and shook out his hand. It had been a long time since he'd thrown something lighter than a boot dagger. His first dart dropped into the bullseye like a stooping peregrine, and then a second, and then a third. The crowd grew quiet, spellbound.

As he readied his fourth dart Oswin lowered his voice and asked, "Not going for my double-twenty? That's eighty if you stick it."

"I don't like the look of it."

"Come on, Matthew."

Matthew sighed, and with a flick of the wrist sent his dart sailing into the cork a hair's breadth outside the double-twenty line. Oswin's dart wobbled with the impact, and then fell from the board. A collective groan arose from the crowd.

"Should have stuck with the bullseye," Matthew muttered. "I'm not that good at darts, either."

He sent his last dart into the outer ring of the bullseye, which was met with applause and cries of commiseration over his ill luck. He found himself smiling as the officiator collected the darts and Oswin led them off the green.

"By Roland's beard," the bartender said, approaching to hand them another drink, "that was some of the finest throwing we've had in a long time. Should have let him go with someone else, Oswin— haven't seen partners so mismatched since you and Leila last came round."

Matthew's heart kicked, and the lightness that he had felt evaporated. He stood motionless with his drink in hand, the sights and sounds and smells blurring into a wash of tiresome noise. Slowly he turned back to the dart board, but the rings of painted cork were not what he saw. He saw his sadness, momentarily forgotten and laid down there on ten paces of carefully measured green, his burden nearly left behind. This was a night of remembrance, to acknowledge that death came for them all and in that shadow celebrate. But not for Matthew. He set his drink on the bar and melted into the crowds.

#

The castle was full of light. The reception hall and ballroom had been opened to the common folk, and the castle staff swarmed the hallways and private rooms, holding their own Longshades festivities. On this night there were few places to hide, and Matthew made his way to the ramparts, where the wind carried away the sound of laughter and the crenellations blocked out the gemlike brightness of festival below. He sat staring up at the stars, their cold and distant light somehow soothing, and he took a drink of Bolganone Brandy he had found in Oswin's desk. He hadn't been keeping up with the knight's drinking during their wandering, but now he intended to get well and truly drunk.

As he lowered the bottle from his lips, the sound of heavy footfalls on the tower staircase arose over the wind, and a moment later Oswin appeared. Somewhere beneath the growing buzz of drink and ever-present sadness, Matthew realized that Oswin knew him quite well, and he wondered when that had come to be.

"Ah," Oswin said, and took the bottle from Matthew. "My favorite. I keep some of this in my desk—almost impossible to find when the merchant caravans aren't in from the Nabatan border."

He took a swig and stood at Matthew's side, looking down on the town, his eyes aglow with distant lantern light. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault." Matthew reached up and took the bottle from Oswin, studied the frosted glass labeling, and set it on the ground beside him. "To be honest, it wasn't her name that got me. It was realizing that for just a little while, I had moved on. She had no family, no one to remember her. No one but me."

"And me." Oswin crossed his arms atop the battlements. "I'm not foolish enough to think I could guide you back to happiness in a single evening. I only wanted to remind you of who she was in life, so you might also remember who _you_ were. You don't have to remember her only in sadness, and she wouldn't want this for you."

Matthew laughed bitterly. "_They wouldn't want this for us_. That's what we always say about the dead, and those they leave behind."

"Because it's true, especially of her. She didn't come to visit me nearly as often after she found you, but I still saw her from time to time. You know what she said, always?"

Matthew's voice was a saccharine façade. "That she loved me so dearly, and if anything happened to her, she wanted me to find happiness."

"She told me '_Sorry, Oswin, meant to write you, but all I got was this quill_.' She couldn't risk commitment, not even to something as simple as a letter. Maybe that was because of her job, maybe it was her personality, but either way she was a being of edges and shadows. But you changed that. You made her predictable. She saw a light in you—that devil-may-care attitude I used to find so grating—and it caught her. It's not that she wouldn't want you to be sad, Matthew. It's that she wouldn't want you to stop being what she knew. I see you compose yourself as time goes by, see something like happiness grow, but every year on this night it gets crushed, and it never comes back quite as strong. The person you're becoming for her sake isn't what she loved." Oswin—dependable, rock-solid Oswin—took a step back, swayed, and put a hand against the cold stone to steady himself. "I don't know what you believe, but I think there's something after this existence, and when we see our loved ones again, it would be best if they still recognized us. Maybe all this isn't my place to say, but I think you and I doing something she loved on the Eve of Longshades—that's a proper remembrance."

He didn't wait for a reply, but as he turned to go a soft sigh escaped his lips. "Young lady, what are you doing up here?"

Matthew looked up. Lilina stood at the top of the stairs, swaying unsteadily on chubby toddler legs. She laughed, babbled something, and pointed down the stairs.

"Yes," Oswin said, and took her in his arms, "that is nursie's voice I hear. You will give her a heart attack before you've outgrown her."

"Oswin, wait," Matthew said. Oswin stopped with his foot on the staircase. "Give her to me—I haven't had half as much to drink as you. Besides, she'll just find me again. I'm not sure why."

"Because she cares for you, even if she doesn't understand it yet."

Oswin handed Lilina over, who snuggled up against Matthew's worn cloak. As he stepped down the stairs and around the curve of the tower, Oswin's voice followed softly after, like the shade of a loved one come back on this night.

"We all do. But her most of all."

The sadness did not waver, but Matthew found himself looking to the future. Perhaps, on another night such as this, he might lay it down for a moment once more.

END


End file.
